A Slave Story
by Skinner632
Summary: A story about a strange slave in Ancient Rome. She works for the Arab and then is bought to live with a person of the Roman Senate. The Roman tells her that she is his '"missing piece."
Chapter 1

Brows soaked with sweat. Helios's great light bestowed upon all below him as he rode his chariot through the red rays. Those who worked and plucked away in the vineyard did not suffer his light, for the shade of the small, black fruit kept them cool. However, those that towed and plowed away were not as fortunate. The Sun bore on the workers' backs causing their skin to be deeply tanned. The few that still bore fair skin will go through a series of boils and great burns before they obtain the dark skin.

This is a slave's life. To follow the commands of their master, no matter what the condition is. Heat. Snow. Rain. It did not matter safe for the lashings that would be awarded for disobedience.

He walked among them. His white turban gleaming with the brilliant light as he sauntered down the rows of perspiring slaves. The tasseled whip threatening as he caressed the dangling, leather strips. The whip taunted the slaves. As if it were saying Dare to Look at Me. The man smiled anytime a slave would whirl his head quickly away as his approached. They feared him. And because of that, he felt like a god. He smiled greatly at this thought, but that smile soon turned to disgust as his eyes fell upon a lone building at the end of the field. The building was a solitary confinement for a slave who immensely went against the master. Against the turban man. In there, a slave would receive the harshest punishments. Every slave he owned feared him but one. And for the life of him, he cannot figure out why. The thought leaves a foul taste and puts him in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

In secret, the slaves call him the Arab. He was their master. Their Bossman. Their "messiah," though the slaves have never called him that, the Arab, himself, has. The slaves believed the Arab to be strange. He was a master that owned any type of slave. No matter the skill or health or age, the Arab bought and bought. Some think it is because of the huge farmland that he procures, others think it is to show power. The slaves are all too well familiar with his vanity. So it wouldn't surprise them if that was the reason.

Winds started to kick up causing all the loose grains of sand and dirt find unprotected eyes. As it pelted at the bare legs and arms of the slaves like needles pricking the skin, the Arab scurried down the row in seek of refuge from the storm. The Arab yelled something but was drowned out by the wailing wind. The slaves may not have heard what he said but they knew. Keep working. So with grimace and tears welling up in their likely red, stinging eyes, they continued to work. On and on they went. Picking grapes, chopping wheat, and fruitlessly plowing the ground. Sand filled their mouths and nestled in their hair. One slave takes a flickering glance at the main house. Through the rippling silk curtains, she saw the Arab drinking a glass of wine sitting in complete contempt. His wives lying about him in very little clothing, with fruits and wine at the ready. If listened close, the soft "ching, ching" "ching, ching" of a belly dancer's coin- sewn belt could be heard. The sandstorm continued.

After many hours, the sandstorm had died down, almost to a complete stop. The Arab showed his face. His clothes were clean, untouched by the sand. Loathing could be found shadowed in the slave's eyes as he stood there. Grinning a vicious grin, he eyed over his articulate tools, then with a commanding tone ordered his slaves to go get a quick rinse.

"We have a visitor coming," he stated, "and you all stink." With that, he took his leave.

The slaves noticed that whenever he told to go take a rinse, a buyer was coming. The Arab wanted to present his slaves with a certain aspect. He wanted them dirty but not too dirty for then the slave looks like a wild animal. If the slave was clean, then it appears that the slave doesn't work at all. So, even though they wash off, the slaves go straight back to work until they are to be presented. At least the sandstorm had ended. The last time there was a sandstorm it brought a plague of locust and had ate all the crops. The Arab, frustrated at having lost an entire season's worth of crops, could think of nothing better than to take it out on the slaves. Each slave received five lashes for their failure at not being able to produce crops.

The sun continued to blaze relentlessly and after working for several hours, one slave noticed something through the rising heat. It became clear and showed distinct body shapes. The visitor.

The Arab strolled down to the entrance kicking up clouds of sand with each step. He swept his arms wide in welcome to the visitor. He climbed off his horse and clasped arms around the Arab, smiling as he did.

"Ah, Sir, Allah welcomes your coming," the Arab remarked.

The man smiled and nodded.

"Come, you wish to buy a slave? I have a great variety to choose from." He led the way with the man following him. The Arab talked and talked, never pausing to take a breath, it made the man tired. Never had he heard someone talk so much. Especially over trivial and useless topics as the Arab did. The only time did he cease was to yell at a slave, most of the time it was in his Arabic tongue. "You are a Roman man, no?" The Arab asked.

"Yes, I am with the Roman Senate." The man brushed at his white toga; clearly his was tired of these trivial questions and wished that the Arab would show him the slaves. The Arab noticed.

"Ah, yes, how many would you like to see?"

"All of them."

The Arab gawks in surprise. Never had he been asked to show all of his slaves. "Um," he clears his throat, "Sir, I should tell your wish would be surveying 63 slaves." The Arab laughs uneasily.

The Roman waved him off. "Bah, time is not an issue. Show them."

The Arab nodded and with that, scuttled away to gather up all 63 of his slaves. Within the next hour, all the slaves had been rounded up and were standing in rows. The Roman during that hour had filled his gut with many finger sandwiches and several chalices of grape wine all of which were presented to him by the many wives. They never spoke, just constantly filled his chalice and his plate; their faces always skillfully hidden behind silk. When he asked the Arab if this was all, the Roman stood up and started his inspecting.

The slaves were presented naked. All that was on them was a simple wooden board that stated the name, profession, and age. One by one the Roman went through them. Sometimes stopping once and awhile to talk to the slave, nod his head, and move on. Constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the next, the Arab was restless. Many times he interrupted the Roman's deep inspection and told him the slaves' attributes and faults. And every time the Roman replied curtly, "Thank you, I will keep that in mind."

When the last slave had been observed, the Roman went back and found his place comfortably on the velvety cushion and had another cup of wine. Silence passed. Everyone still stood where they were, waiting to hear the verdict of the Roman. The Arab wringing his hands uneasily approached the man. Licking his lips, "Was there one in particular you found acceptable?" The Roman took another sip of his drink and sat, his eyes giving the gazes of deep thought. It was as if he was testing each word the Arab said. Tasting it. Swishing it around in his mouth like an aged wine. He then looked at the Arab and smiled. The Arab sighed with relief.

"No."

The Arab quaked at the man. Surly he misheard what he said.

"Is this truly all you have?" The Arab's silence answered the Roman's question. "Not a one fills my requirements. Not one is a suitable slave for my household."

The Arab growled. Never had he been insulted. It would be different if it was in private, but no. The man is insulting him in front of all his dogs. In front of all his slaves who bow to him. _Five lashings each for the vexatious slaves_ , he thought, _and no supper_. The Arab was about to say something but the smug look on the Roman's face as he popped a grape into his mouth stopped him. He turned around, muttering to himself in his own tongue crudely.

As the two men sat in growing silence, neither of them saw the Arab's personal servant whisk off into the hot sands. There was another. And the servant noticed it.

The door was shut. The sandstorm had whisked up a dune that blocked the door. The servant had to dig his way into the lone building. His prediction was correct. There in the middle of the barren room was the forgotten slave. The slave was strung up. Ropes tied around the wrists caused her to be suspended a foot off the ground. Sand was everywhere, even on top of the slave. The little particles had come through all the windows and broken boards in the walls. The sand lay on the shoulders and head, showing that no movement has occurred since the storm. The servant started walking toward the dangling body. He noticed a dark spot on the ground beneath the slave. It was all dried up, the ground having sucked in the bittersweet fluid.

The servant switched his course and walked over to the only furniture in the room. It was a wooden table covered with sharp, cold objects. It was soddened with years of blood giving it a permanent rust color. Having picked up a cleaver, the servant saw his own reflection glistening back at him. Quickly he put it down. Never has he had this easy manipulative tool pressed against his neck nor cut by it. He hasn't ever been lashed before. _And that won't happen anytime soon_ , he thought. He picked up a less frightening tool and went over to the slave.

He stood in front of her for a minute. Her head was lowered, chin resting against her chest. The slave seemed to be asleep or at least close to it. The servant noticed how pale the arms were. She has hung there long enough for all the blood from her arms to rush away. The servant sniffed and grabbed hold of one of the ropes and began sawing at it. Little shavings of the rope floated in the air, glowing like gold shavings when a sunray hit it.

SNAP! The rope was cut through. The slave's arm went limp straight to her side. She did not stir. With haste, the servant went to work on the other side. Then, with the final slice, the rope gave and the slave went crashing onto the hard ground.

She went down with such heaviness that the servant believed her to be dead. He took the scalpel and laid it in front of her nose. Satisfied with the fogginess of the blade, the servant went over to a lone pail beside the table. It was filled with water, well, more mud than water due to all the sand. He took the pail and shuffled over to the lifeless body and casted the bucket's contents upon her.

The slave shook when it fell on her skin, and grunted. She grimaced as she managed to pull herself up to rest on her forearm.

"Come. Get up. There is a Roman man who is observing slaves," the servant said. When he noticed that the slave was having quite some difficult, the servant went over and grabbed hold of one of her wrists, which were scratched raw from the coarse rope. Stumbling all over the place, they managed to get out of the building and trudged their way through the sand towards the Arab.

Chapter 2

It was silent. The only thing that made sound was the gentleness of sand as it hissed across the landscape. The Roman still sat on the velvety cushion, hands clasped together, surveying over at the Arab who was sheltered under an umbrella, his eyebrows, deeply forward, shadowed his eyes. Neither has said a word to each other. The Roman's personal servant leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. He waved him off.

The Arab cleared his throat, unsure of what was just conversed "The day is old, my friend. Perhaps it is time to take your leave?"

The Roman just smiled.

" _Nazra_!" All eyes were turned to the wife that spoke, but followed down her arm for it pointed out into the haze.

"What is it? I see nothing," inquired the Arab.

" _Kadim raqaba daesh maji bi_ ," she replied

"What did she say?" asked the Roman now standing up.

"She says, 'Servant is coming with slave'."

They all stood there, looking out, trying to see past the wavering haze. Then, they all saw it. A black form started to show two shapes. As the shapes got closer, the Arab could make out two bodies, one was his personal servant, the other…

The Arab's heart dropped. He forgot this one. But not on accident, somewhere in the deep subconscious of his mind, he left her out intentionally. Fearing that if he showed this impure slave to prospecting eyes, his reputation would be tarnished. He would never be bought from again, for this girl's, this woman's contemptuous personality is a thorn in any slave owner's side. Usually these types of slaves would be slaughtered, put to death for their ego and disobedience, but he couldn't. The slave may have a big mouth, but she was a hard working slave.

The two people approached. The servant dropped the slave into the sand with a _whaump_. The Roman gazed down at her.

"My Prince… my...huh…" the servant huffed and wheezed as he trudged his way through the never-ending sand. "I have one mo-

"I thought you said you had no more to show," The Roman said without looking at the Arab. He walked over to her.

"Wait!" The Arab ran over to the man, "Let my servants help you. I do not want your Senate hands to be soiled by this heathen." And with a yell of the strange tongue, two built men came out and yanked the slave up to her feet. They locked her arms behind her, but she couldn't stand very well on her own, so the big men gripped her shoulders for balance.

The Roman went towards her.

"Do you wish for her to remove her garments, sir?" Asked one of the burly servants.

"No," he answered in a deep voice. He examined her.

Her skin was deeply tan, probably the darkest he has even seen a white woman's skin. It could also be from the mud that caked her arms and clothes. Chewed fingernails, with dirt wherever it could dig. The Roman noticed some old scars on the upper arms, long and sinewy. Her hair was a brunet, tangled mess with hints of braids here and there. Sand was still nestled into the roots from the sandstorm.

The Roman peered closer at her face. With two fingers, he pushed up her head which had been heavily resting on her chest, and was surprised. The slave's face had no damage or peculiarities whatsoever.

"Open your eyes," the Roman asked softly. He was so close to her face that when she opened her eyes he saw the pupils dilate from the harsh sun. They were a cold gray. Clean and pure. _An oracle's eyes,_ he thought. He stepped away from the slave, the Arab appearing by his side. "Speak your name." The Roman was peering at the slave awaiting an answer, but only received a hard stare.

"She is wise to hold her tongue," the Arab announced. "Her mouth is that of the Nile. Always flowing and never knowing when to stop."

"Then perhaps you tell me her name then."

The Arab shook his head. "We do not know. My family has lived here long, so have the slaves. Names are forgotten in the deep sands, under the unforgiving sun." He paused for a moment. "I have heard her be referred to as Gray."

The Roman returned his attention back to Gray.

"Raise your right hand."

She did.

"Raise your left."

She answered.

"Well, at least she knows her right from her left." The Roman turned his attention to the Arab and said, "You would not believe the amount of slaves that do not apprehend that." The man turned and started walking toward his personal servant, examining the ground as if a coin purse had been dropped there. "How much do you charge for them?"

Clearing his throat, the Arab replied, "2,000 sesterces mostly."

The Roman gestured at woman. "Her?"

"Oh… well, to tell you truth, ah, you would not want her." The Arabs voice was shaking. "She is a troublesome one. Back talks. Doesn't follow commands. Constantly challenging the rules and the authority that resides here." He pauses to think for the correct words. "A heathen like her does not belong amongst the riches and fair people in Rome, like you, sir."

The Roman smiled and looked at the sweaty turban man. "How much?"

He sighed, "3,100 sesterces." The Roman was taken aback. Never had he run across a slave that cost so much. Even those burly, blood stained men fighting in the arena were not at a price such as this. Perhaps this is the one he is searching for.

The Roman returned his gaze at the slave. Staring back, she cocked her head, her face blank and unreadable. The man laughed to himself and waved for his servant to come near. After an exchange of a few words, they were off. Walking back towards the horses, togas rippling ungracefully in the wind.

The Arab stood dumbly, staring off, unsure of the situation. Here a man came, observed his slaves, drank from his cup, and is now leaving with not a word. Not a care. The Arab glanced back at the one they call Gray hoping to see some sort of sign written on her face, but saw instead a woman who had lost interest in the situation and was now drawing designs in the sand with the big toe. The two built men still held her with arms still locked behind the back. She seemed to not even notice that, she seemed to be in a world of her own, intently drawing and surveying the work she created.

The Arab huffed and scurried to the horses, tripping on his clothes several times. He grabbed the horses by the reigns and spoke to the Roman. Their words were low so all those who were spectating could not hear. The other slaves still stood in the sand, naked. They have watched and heard all that has been said. Some were even amused by the sight, seeing their "messiah" grovel before this white man. The older slaves did not show such bemusement, only the young ones did; some of them even dared to snicker which was unheard off. The woman slave showed no emotions, just continued to stare at the ground.

The Arab returned, walking with his head towards the ocean sand. This is when the woman slave looked up. She smirked as she saw the expression on the turban man's face. Defeated. Humiliated. A face like that to a slave is priceless. Gray sees it, but doesn't think the other slaves do; to see that they are not the only obedient dogs. To her, this entire world is up of slaves, people are always controlling others. Just when one thinks there isn't a higher authority, here one comes vainer and unable to comprehend that he or she is possessed by the idea of being a god, when in fact they, too, are just a mere servant to a unknown higher power that the mortal minds cannot begin to grasp.

Gray has never been much of a religious person nor much a believer in fate. The thought of some other power controlling her life didn't sit well. But she cannot say she is an atheist. That word, or any related to it, is not able to appear on her tongue. She knows many gods: Allah, Zeus, Hades, Aries, and the newest one, the one they call "Almighty." The Greek and Roman gods are very well known within her head. But this new book, the Bible, she isn't so. Songs, a black slave who works in the fields, reads this book. Sometimes he would read it aloud. That was how she obtained information about it. For being African American, it is strange to see him give up his faith so easily for another. He explained to her one time it was because of his old master. He wouldn't elaborate anymore; she didn't pry.

The slave liked Songs. Although she never showed it, she appreciated his company when working in the fields. Sometimes when cutting the wheat, he would hum to himself; hum to himself old tribal chants that he learned as a boy in the wild grasslands. Songs would explain the reasons behind them, the stories. Gray found them oddly comforting, which isn't a usual feeling. He is a father. His son is a strapping, young boy named Samuel. The slave later found out why and discovered it was a name in the book.

"My boy will be free." Songs said one night in the cells. "Just like Samuel. He will be a great man and will live a life." He laid his hand on the boy's head and softly answered, "Yessuh, you will."

She never asked him why he named the kid that, he just openly did that night. He never did with her, which is probably best. In all honesty, the slave didn't want to fill this father's head with anymore thoughts of the mistakes he made. The first mistake: bedding down with the sick lady. She was pretty, for a black woman. The slave had distaste for her. The first day the woman came to this place, she instantly knew that Moneek was sick. The slave tried to tell Songs, but he had already fallen for her.

They became close. Moneek became worse. She had boils and blisters all over, her face wasn't even recognizable. It was the plague. Moneek was also pregnant at this time.

Then the day came. It was actually raining, turning the sand to mud and giving the thirsty wheat much needed water. Songs was clutching his wife's hand saying words from the Bible trying to soothe Moneek. There was no physician. They were on their own. The slave stood outside keeping watch. Songs had to leave his post when one of his friends told him, he then asked Gray to assist. She didn't want to, but gave in.

The only time she peeked her head in was when the screaming and crying stopped. Songs was there, clutching Moneek's hand.

She was dead.

The birthing was too hard for her in the condition she was in. But that was not what was disturbing the slave. There were no cries. Where was the baby?

The slave got on her knees and peered under Moneek's dress and found the second mistake. It, he, was smiling. She picked him up and gazed at him. _A smiling slave_ , she thought. Pity washed over her for the infant, anger raised for the parents. What did they think? That if they brought a child into the world it would be free? No. It would be no freer than a fly caught in a web.

She swaddled the baby in a piece of cloth and handed him to Songs. Only this broke him out of his trance. He gazed up at her, unaware still of the bundle of life just handed to him.

"Where is she?" he grieved.

The slave thought, "Elysium."

Songs looked at her confused.

She chose her words carefully. "It is a Roman belief for afterlife. She is there waiting for you. You will go there but not yet… someone else is here for you." She nodded at the bundle.

Songs looked down and smiled greatly at the babe. It stared back, gurgling as he did. When Songs glanced back up, the slave was gone.

That was six years ago and was the only time the slave ever recalled giving solace, especially in a religious format.

She is shaken out of her thoughts by the turban man's obnoxious yelling. Vigorously pointing around and pacing back and forth, the Arab tells the slaves to get back to work. He stared at the restrained slave and exchanged a few words:

"You _will_ get back to work and _will_ do as I say," he pointed his stubby finger in her face, "You will go without supper." With that, the burly servants released her and walked off. She leaves but not before inspecting the Arab and smirking at him.

Chapter 3

The night had brought a chill causing the wheat to have little bits of frost on them, but by the time the slaves went to work it had already melted. And it is thanks to that lovely chill that today wasn't so hot.

That day was an average one. Everyone was hard at it, not like they had a choice, plucking grapes, plowing fields, and moving sacks of dirt. The events of the previous day were long forgotten, except by Songs. He was bond determine to talk to Gray, to ask her if she saw anything in the white man. He doesn't know a whole lot about her; the only thing he knows and is for sure about is her ability to tell the thoughts in people's' minds. That's why none of the slaves care for her and stay away. Songs will hear them whisper in the cells after dark, talking about the "oracle." He always laughs to himself when he hears that word. All the slaves have managed to believe that Gray is an oracle, a seer, because of the cold, blank look in her eyes. Her power emits from her eyes. Songs will admit that some days her eyes can be quite nerving. They can be so blank that it seems she is looking through you, not at you.

 _Dead eyes, but alive_ , Songs has thought on many occasions. Her eyes see everything around her and take it in, but are dead and unemotional to her own self. Eyes with secrets and a tough past.

Picking up his wheat-filled basket, Songs was going to empty it when his shoulder was tapped. There, as he turned around, was a fresh basket held by the hands of the so called oracle.

"Here, let me take that," Gray said in a dull, tired voice. They switched baskets. Songs watched as she walked away, handing it off to the slaves in charge of working the silo. He was surprised that she wasn't working the dirt sacks today. That job consisted of shoveling dirt or sand into large, burlap sacks and once filled, proceeded by carrying them to the store house, which basically was a shed. It was considered the worst job there. If a slave accidentally drops the sack and it bursts, no food for the rest of the day or do two work loads of sack hauling.

Gray returned with another basket and plopped right down in the sand and commenced plucking the wheat, heaving a sigh of boredom as she did. She was the only slave that Songs knew that thought her jobs tedious and uneventful. Not a normal feeling when it comes to indentured servitude, probably because torment was waiting on the other end if the job wasn't done or done correctly. Torture and torment seemed to be the last worry on her mind. This appeared to be true for Songs has long since lost count of how many times she has been in the building at the end of the field. She just doesn't care.

Songs sniffed and broke the silence, "You are late. Better hope to God that the Arab does not hear of it."

"I am late because of him," she replied.

"Hmph. Are you late because of him or because you challenged him," Songs retorted.

No reply.

"I thought so." Songs continued placing corn in the basket but more aggressively. He couldn't hold it in any longer. "Damn it, Gray, do you wish to die?" He glared at her.

"My, Songs, you cursed. A faithful Christian like you shouldn't do that," She looked at him with fake, surprised eyes.

"God dam—

"Don't speak the Lord's name in vain says the boo—

"Do not tell me wha—

"Then what should I tell you."

"The answer to my question."

Gray stared at Songs as he glared at her, fuming, lips pursed. She was silent; she had already given enough lip today, she didn't want to do any more damage to the one person whose company she liked.

"I am sorry," Songs was the one who apologized. He looked down at the wheat in his hand, making his hand relax from its choking grip. He was frustrated, but didn't know why. When it comes to the slave, he stays calm and ready for any loud mouth thing she might say, but this time… there was no such calmness. He closed his eyes.

"It is not that I wish to die, it's…" she gazed off over the sea of wheat stalks, unable to finish her sentence. "Samuel," the slave stated. Songs looked up and saw the young boy who will have, according to the father, a bright and free future.

"Hallo," he said through his big, goofy teeth. This child, since the day he was born, has never ceased smiling. The slave never understood why. She even told him once to wipe his goofy smile off his face. "The Arab will put you to work even more," she scolded to which he replied, "If you smile at the Bossman, why can't I."

"Where you off to, my son? Shouldn't you be in the vineyard?"

He nodded and told them that one of the Arab's wives asked him to go obtain a basket of wheat for them. The slave handed hers off for it was full. He grabbed it and went on his way.

Gray watched him for a while. "How old is he, Songs?"

"Sam shall be turning seven next harvest." They continued to work silently for a little while. "He looks up to you."

The slave said nothing.

"You and I both know that is not always a good thing," he said as the slave gave him a You Just Figured That Out look. "That is why I wish you to be more careful. You are old but are still young and the actions you do are quickly devoured by Sam." He examined her to see if she was still listening. He has learned from her that even though she can be working hard and not hear a word one says, she is actually only pretending. Another talent of hers. "Please, I ask of you to watch yourself a little more." She looked up at him. "Behave that tongue to be more precise."

"As you wish," the phrase she always replies with when is asked to do something.

Songs laughed quietly to himself for he knew this was all impossible. "What is it your people say 'the hell you won't'?"

"You're right, the hell I won't," she replied causing Songs to laugh even more to the point where his nostrils were large enough so a grape could be stuck up each side. The corners of her mouth slightly curved up.

It was a couple minutes after that when Songs asked about the white man, and what he was thinking. She wasn't too pleased with the subject, but did all the same. She explained that he was looking for more than just a slave, and that the fact of her mouthing off seemed to interest him as well as her price. That was when Songs asked if she thinks she will be bought by him. "No," was her answer. At least, that's what she thought until the Arab's obnoxious shrill pierced their ears.

Chapter 4

There they all stood like ducks in a row. The slaves were ordered by the Arab to come for another pick-a-slave-oroma. Apparently what the white man had whispered to the turban man was he'll think on it, for there he stood in his white toga and personal servant at his side. This time, instead of horses, he brought a covered carriage. How the wheels went through the sand will never be known.

The Arab feeling his pride kicking in boomed, "One of you sticking heathens shall be bought today."

 _Blah, blah, blah_ , Gray deemed, _heard it before._

The Roman began inspecting; walking passed every slave with only a few glances. Songs and Gray were in the first row five from the end. She took a glance at Songs; he was sweating, gulping like never before. Of course he had reason to be nervous, he has a son. No way could a father bear be torn away from his son like a wolf cub from its mother. Unlike Songs, the slave had no one. She had no love affections toward anyone to be bothered by that.

The Roman came closer, his pace slowed down. He passed Songs without as much as a glance. Songs' shoulders relaxed. The Roman came in front of Gray, but did not stop. He did, however, give a look from the corner of his eye. On he went down the line.

Gray closed her eyes and rubs them. She was exhausted. The Arab has done a lot to her in the last couple days and a lot of it called for little sleep. If she did sleep, it was because she was knocked out by a baton-type object. To her, that isn't considered sleep. Hunger, too, had to exist somewhere for the Arab has only let her have one meal in the last three days, but amongst all the tiredness, she couldn't tell. Never before had the words "dishwater" and "moldy bread" sound so good.

In her dream land of the tired and hungry, she sensed someone staring at her. Opening her eyes she saw the Roman standing before her. His hands are behind his back and the face grinning. With one finger, he motioned the Arab to come.

"3,100 you said," the Roman asked, "if so, then I shall take her."

The Arab seemed oddly stunned for after those words were said, he puffed up as if he were a peacock ruffling his feathers. He was not the only one. The slave, herself, was. When the Roman stated his words, her eyes slightly widened and her eyebrows formed the look of confusion. Her lips parted slightly as coins were exchanged.

She has been bought.

"Do you have any possessions?" The Roman inquired.

She felt dumb. The question did not register right away.

She shook her head. The only thing she did own was a pair of sandals, which had never been worn. One was stupid to wear such things in the sand. The new slaves did, but quit once they saw that the devil sand particles got up in the leather strappings. Once there, a new world of discomfort and aggravation entered as it rubbed and chafed against the skin when walking, causing all sorts of blisters.

The Roman started walking off after she had answered the question. She didn't know what to do. The Arab fixed that for her by slapping her on the arm with the tasseled whip.

"Get going!" He ordered.

Gray walked straight to him and got up all in his space. "I'm not your slave anymore. So, you can't do anything to me without the permission of my master," she hissed. She took a couple steps back and, opening her arms out, mocked, "I dare you. Hit me again."

The Arab tightened his grip on the whip, but did nothing. She was right. He technically couldn't do anything unless the current master allowed him to. His teeth gritted together for once again his power was humiliated. The slave made him look foolish by challenging him when he lacks the power to do so. He was, once again, groveling at the feet of the white man, but also, and he won't admit it, before the slave.

Eyes becoming the cold stare that so many others hate and fear; the slave dropped her arms and smiled an evil smile.

She turned around and headed towards the Roman, nodding a farewell to Songs and Samuel when she found him, unaware if they will ever see each other again. Odds are… unlikely.

The Roman swept out his arm, allowing Gray to step in first. He followed and so did his servant. The carriage driver released the curtains, shutting the sands and its slaves out of view.

Chapter 5

It was silent for the first 20 minutes of the ride. The Roman's servant shifted weight from side to side and twiddled his thumbs as he sat on his master's left side. His movements annoyed the slave. She had kept her head down the entire time; studying the grains in the wood, only did she look up when the servant did his fidgeting movements. Although she never acknowledged it, she knew the Roman was watching her. His gaze never ventured off.

"So, Gray, can you read?" The Roman asked, breaking the silence.

The slave looked up slowly and just stared.

"You called me Gray...why?"

The Roman seemed puzzled. "Well, I was informed that you were referred to as that."

"That is not my name, only a title which has been given to me due to lack of inquiry from the Arab," she replied dryly.

The Roman was very much intrigued by her way of speech. For a slave with a status such as hers, she speaks fluently with a word selection only an education can offer. In hopes of hearing more of this speech he asked, "Then what is your true name?"

A pause.

"A stranger asking for the name of another without first presenting his?" She tutted a couple a times.

Now, the Roman understood what the Arab meant by a sharp mouth. Even though his servant- known as Silas- started to point his figure at the slave to tell her place, the Roman was not bothered for this reply for sured him that he found the one. His missing piece has shown itself. "You are right, my apologies," his servant dropped his jaw slightly; "Lucious Darius Lysander is my name."

"Domitilla Maria Liboria," she replied. "Maria is fine."

Lucious sat back and smiled with arms crossed against his chest. He thought for a moment, thinking at how odd her name is and yet, how ironic. Domitilla meant "tame one," while Maria meant "rebellious." He scoffed to himself at the thought. The slave looked at him curiously when he laughed to himself. She knew not why. To her, it was just a name.

"Back to my previous question, can you read, Maria?"

"No."

"How odd for the way you speak says so otherwise," Lucious commented.

"I never learned how and, therefore, make up for it with speech."

Lucious thought on this for a little while, drumming up a conversation with his servant as he did. Maria didn't care for their exchanging words so she went back to staring at the wood grains; she was thinking, however, how the Roman's hazel eyes lit up every time she answered one of his questions. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or something else…

When Maria looked up the floor, both the Roman and the servant called Silas were staring at her. She could see another question burning in their eyes, the words sitting at the top of their tongues. She heaved a great sigh.

"Maria is it?" Asked Silas. "What is your age? I believe you to be around 35 if I am not mistaken," he puffed up his chest as if he just solved the world's problems. "The wrinkles around your mouth and on the forehead suggest so." He talked with a voice of grandeur that made him seem like the most intelligent person in the world. Maria thought him stupid for it.

"Well, then mistaken you are, for I am not 35," Maria glared deeply at the servant, "I am precisely 26." Silas snorted. "An urban slave, such as yourself, would not understand the sun's effects."

"And what do you mean by that?" Silas inquired.

"Why, it is what you are. A slave who works in an environment of comfort is what we, rural slaves, call urban slaves." She thought for a moment. "We snicker at the weakness of your kind. How tired you become in an hour's work and your constant babbling for water."

"That is not true. I have done a day's work, and my master can vouch for me."

Maria chortled softly, receiving a look of utter disgust from the servant. "Vouch for you? A man does not need a witness to show his hard work. The scars, cracking skin, and sweat pouring off of his own brow speaks for itself, not the words of another man." Silas rolled his eyes. "Hold out your hands," the slave said. In annoyance, he did. Maria held them and examined them, turning them over and over. She smirked. "You, sir, have not done a day's plowing in your life," she threw Silas's hands down, "The baby-soft skin still resides, untouched by hard labor."

The Roman smiled and chuckled. The woman was peeking his interest every second.

Time passed. The terrain had changed a while back and that was only known due to the sudden _clop clop clop_ of the horse's hoofs. No other words were conversed after the discussion of "who works more." The slave found it strange that the Roman didn't inquire anymore about her. She was fine with that, but she would like to know what her job was. Maria wasn't very well educated in the duties of a rural slave. What little she knew came from the grumbling complaints of the rural slaves in the fields. None the less, Maria did not care.

The chariot came to a sudden stop earning a groan of relief from Silas. "Thank the Gods, we are finally home." That comment annoyed Maria; it is the perfect example as to why she did not care for religions. People think everything is done by the gods. Even the ceasing of a moving horse on a long journey apparently is the sign of a God.

A moment of blindness swept over as the drapes were pulled apart, allowing a great amount of light flooding in. The Roman smiled slightly and stepped out into the white light, followed by his servant. Maria stood up and peered outside.

"Domitilla Maria Liboria, welcome to Rome."

Chapter 6

On the field, you hear stories about the city. You especially hear stories of her and her people: Rome. The stories come from the recently arrived urban slaves. When they arrived to their cells, shared with five other slaves, in the ergastulum, they are babbling about their recent life. They tell of her people, her culture, her buildings, everything. These new slaves had also been very well educated. Some were physicians, teachers, and engineers and were allowed to build up a peculium. Well, all that coin they had earned in their peculium was taken away for the slaves had been demoted to a rural slave. Slaves were denied education, a peculium, freedom, and heir. No slaves could give the title heir to anyone in the family. It was a right only the wealthy had. Most of the new slaves died within a month.

Maria was reminded of the new slaves whining when she stepped out into the light. It was one thing to hear them talk about Rome; it was another to see it.

People were bustling about. Yelling and hollering at each other for the prices of the chickens and cloth. A man stood on top of several boxes and was waving his arms frantically, shouting odd things to his peers that sat around him. It was a marketplace. Constant carriages and chariots road passed in a rush, kicking up, not sand, but little pieces of gravel. The ground was paved with square stones, much of it worn down from the endless sandaled feet tramping all over it.

Maria stepped down and was immediately covered by darkness. The giant, albani stone buildings towered over the slave and the bustling people. Their columns seem to stretch all the way to Jupiter's domain, invading his sky.

The slave did not realize it but her eyes had grown wide, lips slightly parted. Lucious watched her with amusement. The eyes darted around trying to take it all in. They then fell on Lucious who was smiling.

"Have you ever seen a city?" He asked.

The slave shooked her head: left, right, and straight back to middle.

The Roman chuckled, "You will grow to like it." And with that, he turned and headed towards the chaos. Silas, who had been trying to wager with the driver, briskly walked to catch up with his master. Maria dumbly followed.

She felt odd as they walked, well, more like push and shove in her case. All her life, the slave grew up walking in the sands, building strange muscles in the legs to withhold the constant giving away of the loose ground, but here the ground was hard. The square stones stayed in place, never shifting. It was cold too. There was no need to helter-skelter across the sands allowing only the toes to touch. As she pondered the weird feel, Maria's ears picked up a chanting. Looking up for the source of the chanting, she found it was the man on top of the boxes. He was thin and frail; paint covered his body in strange patterns and colors. The staff, which he held, constantly waved through the air and punched the top of the box. The punching always happened when the painted man would say "deliverance" or "divinity" or " _do ut des"_ as if to emphasize his speech, to bring awareness. _Do ut des_ in the Roman tongue means "I give, so that you may give." Maria knew that phrase and understood the sickly man's chanting. He, in his mind, was a messenger of the gods. Their words spoke through him to speak to the believers.

Songs told of men like this to Maria. Men who would pose themselves as something when they were nothing except ranting and raving men. She smirked at the believers around him. Maria bet that all of them didn't know what he was talking about, if not, only a few did.

"Are a faith keeper, Maria?" Lucious was standing right next to the slave, gazing at the aedes of boxes.

"Are you?" Maria asked bluntly.

Lucious peered down at the slave who was wearing a blank stare that gazed upon the ground. He didn't know what to think of her. Not necessarily of her reply, but how she acted after. He imagined her to scoff, but instead received an ominous feeling like a dark thundercloud whisking around her body. _Perhaps, that should be left alone_ , thought Lucious.

He lifted his hand to pat Maria on the shoulder but she drew away, flashing a hard stare. Maria took another glimpse at the chanting man and turned to follow her new master down an angiportus.

Chapter 7

"You will serve in my household as my wife's body servant," Lucious stated as they ascended white, marble steps that led the way to two huge iron doors.

"Body servant?" Maria murmured.

"The Roman smiled, "Yes. Silas, here, for example, is my body servant," he patted his shoulder, "and he attends to my needs whenever I call upon him."

"As you wish…," the slave mumbled in reply.

Maria gasped as they entered. The floor changed drastically cold causing goose bumps to run all over her arms. Never had she felt sand cold like this, but of course, this wasn't sand. This was emblemata. Flooring that was made more for design than for comfort. Red and white rectangles created the border of the emblemata, then, centered in the middle was a white dove breaking out of its cage. Maria surveyed it for a while but her attention was drawn to the Roman's voice, who went through the entrance room and out onto a balcony.

Silas motioned the slave to follow. Following the same path as Lucious, the two body servants came to face a white wall of billowing curtains. Maria could make out the Roman's body and what appeared to be the silhouette of a bench or couch. The words spoken were soft and dimmed, but Maria was able to pick out a woman's voice. Silas and the slave just stood beyond the reach of the curtains, constantly feeling the breeze as the silk fluttered up and down. Then, the Roman's voice broke out, "Silas! Bring her!" He slightly bowed in response even though the Roman couldn't tell that. Holding back the first curtain, Silas waved for Maria to go on.

It was extremely difficult, walking through them. The winds kept pushing the curtains toward Maria making her battle and sometimes get twisted around them. On the last hanging silk, the slave pulled it back to reveal a goddess.

The goddess was lying on top of a lounging couch under a canopy of fig trees. The sun shone through the leaves in little beams of light, hitting the golden bracelets and necklaces making them sparkle and gleam. Her hair was tossed in perfect chestnut curls on top of her head with gold bands wrapping through and through.

She sat up and gazed at Maria with royal eyes. Her wrap of robin's egg blue, fell from her shoulder revealing fair skin. The slave had never seen skin such as the goddess's. If there were such things as gods and goddesses, then they would surely strike Maria down if she had stated aloud that this woman was Hera's daughter, Hebe. _If there were such things_ , the slave thought.

Maria stood before the woman, being analyzed up and down by the vibrant, blue eyes.

"My husband tells me you are called Maria?" The goddess asked, although it was more in the form of a statement than anything.

Maria nodded.

"And you are to be my body servant."

She nodded again.

The woman heaved a sigh. "Well, I guess she will do. She isn't much for looks, though." Again, she surveyed Maria, "Prasilica!" A young girl entered. "Take this… girl… into the alipterium for a long bath."

"Yes, my lady." The young girl smiled at Maria and led the way through the wall of clouds.

Making sure the two servants were gone, Lucious said, "Really, Cassia, must you act that way?"

The wife was wrapping one of the chestnut curls around her index finger like a young girl deciding what candy she wants. "Honestly, Lucious, you have to set them straight right off the bat. You have to show them they are nothing compared to us." After a long pause she added, "Is she really the one?"

Lucious clenched his jaw. "Yes," he replied, "I am sure of it."

Chapter 8

"My job is to assist you and tell you your rolls around here."

Prasilica, the young servant girl, had not shut her mouth since they were out of earshot from the couple. That, if Maria remembered right, was three long, dreadful hallways ago. Maria became all well too familiar in the servant girl's background, likes and dislikes.

Where she came from, which Maria forgot already, favorite food which was figs and her numerous other things that seemed trivial to Maria. In her mind, the slave would have much preferred the Arab over this girl any day.

Prasilica was young, much younger than Maria, and has been a servant since she was twelve. If Maria remembered right, she said she was nineteen. Her straw colored hair was kept neatly away from her face. Freckles galore dotted her face. Maria didn't know why but every time Prasilica smiled, Samuel popped into her head. The girl's smile was nothing compared to the big, goofy teeth of the young, dark boy. Maria dismissed it and shook the child's face out of her head. She wasn't ever going to see him again anyways.

On several occasions, the servant girl asked Maria about her, most of which she answer nothing or a couple words that she thought was suffice. Prasilica didn't seem to mind.

They came to a stop in front of wooden doors. As Prasilica opened the door, wafts of warm air and steam came rushing out. The heat warmed Maria and rid her of the cold of the mausoleum.

"This way now," Prasilica said in a cheery sing-song voice. Maria followed but not before slipping on the suddenly wet floor. The servant girl giggled. "Careful now. Don't want you falling down to Hades!"

"More like Poseidon…," Maria grumbled in response.

The room was an alipterium. Several baths were about the room in corners with one giant one in the middle. The baths weren't unoccupied though. The men glanced up for a moment and went back to their discussion.

The two servants walked along the sides of the steamy liquid, being careful not to slip. Maria's right foot slid out but luckily she regained her balance. The slave, however, did not return up right. She was fixated at the reflection of sand and dirt covered woman. The woman had deeply tanned skin with wrinkles on the forehead. Her hair was wild, sticking out in thick clumps, sand nestled in the roots. But what really entranced Maria were the eyes. They were round and dark around the eyes as if they were sunken in. Gray. That was the color. A cool gray that seemed to look through Maria. They were shadowed. The eyes didn't look it but the slave could feel they were. Shadowed in the past, but in the present.

A hand clasped around Maria's wrist, "Not here silly." Maria was unaware of Prasilica touching her and replied by following in a daze. The men occupying the baths watched the slave and just stared.

They entered into an even hotter and muggier room. A single bath lay sunken in the middle of the room, and it occupied no one. Prasillica went straight towards it, taking off her garments as she did. She stood in the murky water with a sponge and white bar in hand.

"Alright. Get in."

After constant persisting, Maria finally convinced Prasillica that she was fully capable of drying herself off. The servant left. It was a strange experience. Maria has never had a _bath_ before. A couple of cold sprinkles here and there was as close to a bath as she ever got. In no way was it relaxing, but probably would be if someone wasn't roughing you done with a scratchy sponge.

Prasillica came back but with arms loaded with silk garments. Holding up each one to Maria, the servant expressed several scrunched faces and audible _hmmms_. Finally she gave up, heaving a sigh and plopped down on a nearby chair. "Well, I don't know! Which one do you like?"

Maria gazed at them. Never before has she been given a choice of what to wear, so she was quite intrigued by this situation. Pointing to a deep blue, "That one."

Prasillica picked it up, smiled, and nodded with agreement. Holding up the blue dress, she walked toward Maria and assisted with putting it on.

The dress was a deep blue with silver trim. The silky material gathered to the left shoulder, held together by a big silver clasp. It suited Maria. The color brought out the brown in her hair and made her eyes even more vibrant and vivid. Prasillica gasped when the outfit was on and said it was gorgeous. The servant left to tell the Roman that all was well, leaving Maria alone, standing in front of the mirror.

The sand covered, wild hair, dirty slave wasn't even recognizable. Instead, what stood before the mirror was a lady. A lady with neatly trimmed hair and a silky dress. Not a speck of dirt or sand to be found. While waiting for Prasillica to return, the slave twirled a braid. On the right side of her face was a section a hair longer than the rest. It was braided with a silver ribbon running through it. Maria had to cut her hair short, about shoulder length. It was too long and tangled to do anything with before, so _chop chop chop_ went the hair.

There was a bowl of fruit sitting on a table nearby. Hunger re-awoke to the sight of it causing Maria to remember that she hasn't eaten for at least two and a half days. Snagging a green apple, she bit the apple. Its juices poured down her chin and released a sweet sour flavor into her mouth. As she swallowed, her hunger intensified. More than an apple was needed to cease this hunger.

Prasillica returned and waved for Maria to follow.

Chapter 9

The master, mistress, and their child were sitting around a lavishly decorated table, covered with food of all sorts. The aroma was unbearable to Maria as she smelt it down the hall. She thought she was going to pass out.

Lucious had been talking about his trip and the curious turban man. Their son was in awe; he loved when his father told stories. The boy, in secret, made it his duty to remember every story and take every lesson and moral to heart. He wanted to be the next caeser.

The boy wanted to see this "turban man." He didn't even know what a turban was, but nonetheless wanted to see one. His father began to tell about the slave and how she acted toward the Arab. How the slave smirked when the turban man groveled. This was who the boy really wanted to see. He couldn't help but notice how his father talked about the slave. His father talked about her almost in awe and amazement as if he had come to the realization of something. The more he talked about the slave, the more the boy imagined. He pictured the slave with scars running down on her face. Her eyes piercing like daggers, and little stealthy daggers tucked away in her bodice. He grinned. For an eight-year-old, he had quite the imagination.

Lucious ceased talking when Prasillica and a woman in a blue dress came out. The woman's face was unrecognizable.

"Master and Mistress, I present to you, our new body servant Maria," Prasillica announced, giving Maria a wink.

Maria saw the goddess's face. Stunned. _Apparently I don't have to open my mouth to give an impression_ , thought Maria.

Lucious stood from the table and walked over to where the slave stood. He smiled, held out his arms, and said with a warmth Maria never experienced, "Welcome to our home."

Maria's stomached growled in protest. She'd eaten much, but hunger still bellowed and begged for more. The slave ignored it. She didn't know if it was possible but she didn't want to explode. The Roman allowed both Prasillica and her to eat with them at the table as a welcoming gift. During that time Maria had gulped down four pieces of bread, two chicken breasts, a salad, four bowls of soup, and a delicious dessert that she had no idea what it was. There was no manner in her eating; one that food was put in front of her, there was no stopping. Several times the goddess cleared her throat in protest but the Roman would just lean over and whisper in her in "no."

The boy, whose name is Tidus, stared with his mouth wide enough for a fly to swarm in. He was disappointed that she looked nothing like he imagined, except for the eyes. He only hoped that she had the tongue his father told about.

The table was cleared and the goddess took the child and left the room. Prasillica left to help with the plates, so it was just Lucious and Maria.

No words were exchanged, they only stared at each other.

"That color suits you," Lucious blurted out, "Brings out the eyes."

Maria only nodded. She was tired from all the food she ate and hadn't had a decent sleep for several days. Hopefully, if this place is as grand as it is, something more than a stone floor and hay would be waiting for her.

The Roman pushed himself from the table and asked Maria if she would walk with him. Not like she could say no.

They walked out onto the balcony and gazed at the sunset. It was hazy from the heat. Maria rested her forearms on the landing and waited for him to speak.

"Do you have family, Maria?" He asked. "If so, we will buy them too. We want you to be as comfortably as possible."

"Kind offer, but no. I have no one." Maria toyed with her braid, "My mother died giving birth to me. She was a slave, making me one the second I came out."

"What of your father?"

Maria stood silent for a moment, examining the split ends at the end of her braid. "He is unknown to me," she answered. "I have never seen him and don't care to."

Lucious was quiet. He knew this girl was sharped mouth but even so, he thought that personal things such as this would be a bit more of a challenge. Obviously, he was wrong.

He cleared his throat. "Do you know why I do not refer to Silas as my slave?"

Maria thought this an odd question and considered herself interested. "No."

"Silas has been my body servant since I was a boy. He was bought to be my playmate." He glanced at Maria. "Overtime, as I got older, I started to refer to Silas not only my servant but as a friend. As family."

"That's a bold thing to say. Did your father not scold you for your view?"

He laughed. "Oh yes. Many times, but I would not change my view." He paused. "You know why?"

"Perhaps you received too many blows to the head when playing gladiator," Maria replied, receiving a chuckle from the Roman.

"Yes. It is strange, but I have never agreed with the idea of owning others."

Maria stared blankly.

"In this house, my family and I refer to our servants, you, as part of this family. We disagree with the act of owning people." Lucious looked at Maria as if waiting for an answer. For once, she didn't have one. Here she was, in new clothes, new place, and not in the sand and this man was asking her, if she was right, to be part of the family. Maria has never had family. The closest thing she probably had was with the black, religious, African man and his smiling son, but even Maria didn't considered that family, just a strange friendship.

Lucious turned toward Maria, facing her completely. He made up his mind. He would tell her.

"Maria, I am against slavery."

"So I heard the first couple times you said," she mocked.

He ignored her comment. "I am leading a revolt, but I need the right piece to do so."

Squinting through the harsh setting sun, Maria looked up at him.

"You are my missing piece," he stated, "The moment I saw you I knew you were what will aid in the ending of the Senate and slaves." He took a breath. "What do you say?"

Silence befell on them, making the air thick and tense. The silence was deafening to Lucious. He didn't know what to expect but hoped an agreement.

Then as if she knew he couldn't bare it any longer, she spoke in a gruff and sharp voice, "Slaves will never be free. It is us that the people of Rome thrive on. If we articulate tools should vanish, you or any others wouldn't know what to do. You wouldn't know how to care for yourself." She glared hard at Lucious, " _We_ are the currency in this world not your damn sesterces." Her gaze never left the Roman's eyes. He never left hers. Lucious didn't know what to say. "But…," Maria released her gaze and looked upon her hands, "There is someone who does. Who needs to be free." Lucious looked at her questionly. "That boy needs to be free, even if I suffer the consequences and return to the fields as "Gray."

Spirits lifting, the Roman inquired, "Does that mean you will join me?"

Maria heaved a great sigh, "If that is what you want, then as you wish." She lowered her head in a bow. Lucious placed his hand under her chin and lifted her head.

"There is no need for that. From this day forth, you are a member of this family until you do not wish to be." He smiled. "Tomorrow you start a new journey, Domitilla Maria Liboria."

To Be Continued...


End file.
